Chapter 39 Prime
PRIME
I woke up before Zahara.
For a minute, I just lay there watching her sleep. The way her curls fanned across my satin pillow. The way her lips parted slightly with each breath. The way she’d curled into me sometime during the night, her hand resting on my chest like she belonged there.
Because she did.
I slipped out of bed without waking her and threw on some sweats and a hoodie.
Checked my phone—7:43 AM. Early enough to grab breakfast and be back before she woke up.
I checked on Yusef in the guest room before I stepped out.
He was still out like a light, the stress and fear gone from his face as he slept.
Despite what had happened, he was a good kid.
I’d let him down once, but never again. I would be there for him, for Zahara, for always. I swore it.
The morning air hit me as I stepped outside, crisp and cool. DC in the fall. My favorite time of year.
I walked the three blocks to the café I liked, the one with the good croissants and the fresh-squeezed orange juice. My mind wandered as I moved through the streets, replaying last night.
The way she’d looked at me when I played for her. The tears on her cheeks. The way she’d kissed me in the kitchen like she couldn’t hold back anymore.
The way she’d felt underneath me. Around me. The sounds she made when she came.
I shook my head, trying to clear it.
This wasn’t me.
I didn’t do domestic. Didn’t do breakfast runs and lazy mornings and playing house with a woman and her kid. I was a hitman. A killer. A man who’d spent the last decade moving through the world like a ghost, never staying anywhere long enough to care.
But here I was. Thinking about what kind of eggs Zahara liked. Wondering if Yusef was a pancakes or waffles type of nigga. Planning breakfast like I was somebody’s man.
Somebody’s stepfather.
The thought stopped me in my tracks.
Yusef.
That boy had been through more in the last forty-eight hours than most people experienced in a lifetime. He’d taken a life. Carried that weight home with him. Put a gun to his own head because he didn’t think he could survive what came next.
And I’d looked in his eyes and seen myself. Thirteen years old. Blood on my hands. No one to help me.
I wasn’t gonna let him end up like me. Wasn’t gonna let him spend years in a cage, getting harder and colder until there was nothing soft left inside him. He had his music. Had his mother. Had a future that didn’t involve violence and death.
I was gonna make sure he kept all of that.
These feelings were foreign. Uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to caring about people like this. Wasn’t used to my thoughts being consumed by someone else’s wellbeing. For years, my mind had been a cold, efficient machine—focused only on the job, the money, the survival.
Now I couldn’t stop thinking about them. About her. About him.
It was unusual. Unsettling.
And I didn’t know what to do with it.
My phone rang as I was leaving the café, bags in hand.
Rashid.
“Yeah.”
“Prime.” His voice was warm but businesslike. The way it always was when he wanted something. “How you doing, son?”
“I’m good. What’s up?”
“The parole hearing is Monday.”
My jaw tightened. I’d known it was coming, but hearing it out loud made it real.
“Aight. I’ll have Zahara and the boy there.”
“Good.” Rashid paused. “And Prime—don’t make any trouble for Meech. Whatever feelings you got about him, whatever history—leave it at the door. This is about getting him home.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Rashid that dragging Zahara to a prison to face her past wasn’t sitting right with me. That something about this whole situation felt off.
But I owed Rashid. Owed him everything.
“I said I’ll have them there,” I repeated. “I keep my word.”
“I know you do, son. That’s why I trust you.”
He hung up before I could say anything else.
I stood on the sidewalk, coffee getting cold in my hand, and tried to shake off the irritation crawling up my spine.
Monday.
Two days from now, I’d be walking Zahara into a parole hearing for a man I didn’t know, for reasons I didn’t fully understand, because Rashid asked me to.
And I had a bad feeling about all of it.
I was almost back to the penthouse when my phone buzzed again.
Justice.
Not a call this time. A text. With a link.
Justice: You see this shit???
I clicked the link. A Washington Post article loaded on my screen.
The headline made me stop walking.
“Vive Liquor Executive Dante Oldsman Exposed: Affair, Embezzlement, and Money Laundering Scheme Revealed”
I scrolled through the article, a smile spreading across my face.
It was all there. The photos of Dante with Christina Moore.
The offshore accounts my guy had uncovered.
The shell companies funneling money from his development firm to his mistress’s “consulting business.” Millions of dollars stolen from investors, hidden in the Caymans, now exposed for the whole world to see.
Vivica had moved fast. Must’ve taken everything I gave her and fed it straight to the press. She’d gone nuclear.
Destroyed him publicly. This would ensure that the divorce went smoothly.
Another text from Justice came through.
Justice: Casino permits approved this morning. Vivica’s office pushed them through first thing. We’re good to go.
Then another.
Justice: I don’t know what you did, but thank you. We owe you.
I pocketed my phone, satisfaction settling in my chest.
It was done. The deal was complete. Vivica had her ammunition, Dante was finished, and the Banks family had their casino permits. Rashid was safe from whatever threats she’d been holding over his head.
I’d played her game and won.
Now I was out. Done with Vivica. Done with her manipulation. Done being her errand boy.
From here on out, she was nothing to me.
I picked up my pace, eager to get back to the penthouse. Back to Zahara and Yusef. Back to this strange new life I was building.
The elevator opened and I stepped into the penthouse, grocery bags in hand.
“Yo, I got breakfast,” I called out. “Croissants, eggs, bacon, that fancy orange juice you—”
Zahara was standing in the living room.
Waiting for me.
Her arms were crossed. Her jaw was tight. And in her hand, dangling from one finger like evidence at a crime scene, was a pair of panties.
Red. Lace. Definitely not hers.
Fuck.
“What the hell is this?” Her voice was cold, controlled with a calm that meant a storm was coming.
I set the grocery bags on the counter, buying myself a second to think. “Where’d you find those?”
“Under your bed. I dropped my earring and found these instead.” She stepped closer, eyes blazing. “So I’ma ask you again. What. The hell. Is this?”
My mind raced. Under the bed. Red lace. When the fuck had—
Then it hit me.
“Farah,” I muttered. She’s the only woman that’s been in my apartment and I gave her my damn apartment code back when she was working with the contractors.
Zahara’s eyes went wide. Then narrow. A humorless laugh escaped her lips.
“Farah.” She nodded slowly, like I’d just confirmed every suspicion she’d ever had. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”
“Zahara, it’s not—”
“Don’t.” She held up her hand, cutting me off. “Don’t you dare stand there and lie to my face. I saw the way she looked at you at the gala. The way she looked at ME. Like I was competition. Like she wanted to fight me for you. I don’t compete with no bitch!”
“I ain’t asking you to compete with her because me and her were never a thing.”
“Then why are her panties under your bed, Prime?” Her voice cracked on my name. “Huh? If nothing ever happened, why—”
“Because she was my interior decorator!” I was losing my patience now, my voice rising. “She had the code to my place. She was in and out for weeks setting everything up. I don’t know when she left those there or why, but I never touched her. Never.”
“You really expect me to believe that?” Zahara shook her head, tears forming in her eyes that she refused to let fall. “She just happened to leave her panties under your bed? What, they fell out of her purse?”
“She left it there to fuck with me!”
“Why does she have the code to your apartment?” Zahara’s voice was rising now too. “Why does another woman have access to your home, Prime? To the place you just asked me and my son to live?”
“Because I didn’t think about it. I gave her the code a while ago when she was decorating and I forgot to change it. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Girl it’s the truth. And you need to stop raising your voice in my house.”
We stood there, both breathing hard, the air between us charged with anger and hurt and something that felt dangerously close to breaking.
“I’m changing the code,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Today. Right now if you want. She won’t have access anymore.”
“It’s not about the code, Prime.” Zahara’s voice dropped, heavy with disappointment. “It’s about trust. It’s about the fact that I just gave you everything—my body, my son, my whole fucking life—and you got another woman’s panties under your bed.”
“Yo, you’re trippin’. I explained. She planted them there. Probably when she was redecorating.” Hell she could’ve done it the night that I brought her here while she was drunk.
“Then why does it feel like you did?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
Zahara stared at me for a long moment. Then she laughed—bitter, broken.
“I’m so stupid,” she whispered. “I knew better. I knew not to trust this. Not to trust you.”
“Zahara—”
“Yusef!” She turned toward the stairs, her voice sharp. “Get your stuff. We’re leaving.”
“Are you serious right now?” I followed her, grabbing her arm. “You’re gonna walk out over some panties I didn’t even know were there?”
She yanked away from me. “Don’t touch me.”
“This is crazy! You’re jumping to conclusions without even—”
“YUSEF!” She yelled louder, ignoring me completely. “NOW!”
I heard movement upstairs. Yusef’s door opening. Footsteps.
“Zahara.” I stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You are takin’ shit too far over a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” She laughed again, that same broken sound. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Yes. Because that’s what it is. I have never touched Farah. I have never wanted Farah. The only woman I want is standing in front of me right now, acting like I’m the enemy when all I’ve done is protect her, provide for her, and love her.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Doubt, maybe. Or want. For a second, I thought she might stay. Might let me explain. Might trust me the way I’d trusted her.
Then her walls went back up.
“I can’t do this right now,” she said quietly. “I need space. I need to think.”
“Fine.” The word came out harder than I intended. Colder. “You want space? Take all the space you need.”
Yusef appeared at the bottom of the stairs, backpack on, confusion written all over his face.
“What’s going on?” he asked, looking between us. “Why are we leaving?”
“We just need to go home for a bit, baby.” Zahara’s voice softened for him, even as her eyes stayed hard on me. “Get your jacket.”
Yusef looked at me. I saw the question in his eyes. The fear. After everything that had happened, after everything I’d promised him—was I about to disappear, too?
“It’s okay, lil man,” I said, forcing my voice to stay even. “Go with your mom. I’ll see you soon.”
He didn’t look convinced. But he grabbed his jacket and followed Zahara to the door.
She paused with her hand on the handle. Didn’t turn around.
“I’ll have your doorman call us a cab.”
“Aight.” My voice was ice now. All the warmth I’d felt this morning—the hope, the softness, the fucking croissants—frozen solid. “I’ll see you Monday.”
She turned then. “Monday?”
“Meech’s parole hearing.” I met her eyes, let her see the anger I was barely containing. “I’ll pick you up at 6 AM. Try not to jump to any more conclusions before then.”
Her jaw tightened. “Fuck you, Prime.”
“You already did. Last night. Remember? Before you decided I was the villain.”
The words hung in the air, ugly and sharp.
Zahara’s eyes glistened. For a second, I thought she might cry. Might apologize. Might realize she was wrong.
Instead, she opened the door and walked out.
Yusef followed, glancing back at me one last time before the door closed behind them.
And I was alone.
In my penthouse. With my cold coffee. And a pair of red lace panties that had just blown up everything I’d been building.
I grabbed the panties from where Zahara had dropped them and stared at them.
Farah.
That sneaky, manipulative, obsessed little—
She’d done this on purpose. Had to have. Left them there knowing Zahara would eventually find them. Planted a bomb in my bedroom and waited for it to go off.
I pulled out my phone and changed the access code to the penthouse. Then I blocked Farah’s number.
Then I hurled the panties across the room into the trash can.
If Zahara thought I was gonna chase her, she had another thing coming.